


Bond, Ionic Bond

by consultingsmartass (consulting_smartass)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom John, Fantasizing, Frottage, M/M, Top Sherlock, Unsafe Laboratory Practices, Wet Dream, nearly a crackfic, so many Bond movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consultingsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After one of Sherlock’s experiments accidentally knocks him out, he finds himself in a dream world inspired by a recent (forced) viewing of the Bond series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bond, Ionic Bond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reynard_muldrak](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=reynard_muldrak).



> For reynard-muldrak’s summerlock exchange prompt – “John/lock based around this: Everything around me became suddenly as if in a dream...unreal.”
> 
> The Wizard of Oz immediately came to mind, but I had a hard time deciding which character John would play opposite to Sherlock’s Tin Man and how exactly they would get to frickle fracking. So, I decided on a film series often referenced in Johnlock fanfic instead. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, [patternofdefiance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance) is basically the best ever. This was a complete train wreck before she took a look and anything worthwhile you find in this is due to her patient, thorough betaing (TWICE).

\---xxx---

Sherlock is rushing because he is behind schedule. He is behind schedule because John forced him to watch another one of those inane films last night - the ones with the unflappable MI6 agent who gambles, shoots, and drives like a madman, and still manages to charm all the women. Last night’s selection had involved an electromagnetic weapon aimed at London, a turncoat agent, and a ridiculous number of conveniently useful gadgets.

Sherlock sighs nosily as he increases the gas flow to his Bunsen burner to speed up the reaction. John’s favourite movies are painfully formulaic, with overinflated plots and contrived dialogue. Why anyone finds such films to be classics is beyond him.

A fizzling sound coming from the Erlenmeyer flask over the flame prompts him to lean in to investigate, mind already rapidly narrowing down the cause.

 _Hmm, that smoke isn’t supposed to be yellow_ , is Sherlock’s last thought before slumping over unconscious onto the kitchen table.

-

Loud, brass-laden music fills Sherlock’s ears and then he opens his eyes to see John strapped to a table with legs and arms spread. They are in a large, wood-panelled room with a bank of outdated monitors and rows of small buttons against one wall.

Sherlock heaves a massive internal sigh as he instantly recognizes the Bond set from…something-finger? The one with the diamond smuggling? No, that was ‘Diamonds Are Forever’. The films always have such overly-dramatic titles that often give everything or nothing away.

He eyes the metal table and realizes it is made of gold. _Ah, Goldfinger, that’s the name. Moronic._

Sherlock had tried to delete this, but found that that would have also meant also deleting three evenings spent with John happy and close beside him. So the campy sets remain, now fodder for his own subconscious to mock him.

A comically large and ridiculously slow-moving laser is firing a red beam at the space between John’s legs. Although he is restrained, John does not seem too concerned about the ray that is easily bifurcating the table.

Sherlock tries to ask John a question, but other words emerge from his mouth. “The purpose of our two encounters is now very clear to me. I do not intend to be distracted by another. Good night, Mr. Bond.”

“Do you expect me to talk?” demands John.

Sherlock feels the words spill out of him in a guffaw. “No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!”

He turns away and enters the glassed-off area with the spinning reels and ancient technology.

“You’re forgetting one thing,” John calls out, a little desperation in his voice.

Sherlock turns back around to respond, but finds that the room has changed abruptly and John is gone. Concrete and fluorescent lighting have replaced the wood and stone. It’s obviously an underground facility, though he is not certain of location yet. Cars that John regularly salivates over line the walls, there are gas cylinders and ballistic dummies in the corners, and before Sherlock is a table covered in a random assortment of objects, including a shoe, an empty foot cast, and a pack of cigarettes.

Sherlock picks up a cigarette and looks around for a lighter, but the cigarette is batted from his fingers before he can bring it to his lips.

“Are you an imbecile?” sputters an elderly man wearing a white lab coat.

Sherlock frowns. “Why did you do that?”

“You must be new here at Q branch. That’s a cigarette rocket dart. You could have blown off someone’s arm, stupid boy.”

Sherlock looks down and realizes he is also wearing a white lab coat. “Is this–”

“Oh, do be quiet. M and several Double-Os are due any minute and we don’t want this place any more of a mess than usual.” There is a yelp from behind them and the cantankerous man spins around and rushes over to another jacket-clad person trying to stop a fountain pen from igniting.

They apparently fail, because there is a bright light and a giant fireball and when Sherlock’s vision clears again he is no longer underground but at a baccarat _chemin-de-fer_ table in a high-end casino.

The table is populated by eight other people in eveningwear, but it is the woman in the one-shouldered red dress across from him that makes flirtatious eye contact as the croupier collects their cards.

“I need another thousand,” she tells the man to her left as she pulls out her chequebook.

Sherlock eagerly pulls a cigarette from the case suddenly at his hand. This film predates the one with the exploding variety, so he happily reaches for a lighter. “I admire your courage, Miss…uh…?” Apparently his mouth is once again not under his control.

“Trench. Sylvia Trench.” She pauses her pen on the cheque for a moment to make deliberate eye contact. “I admire your luck, Mr…?”

Lighting the cigarette, Sherlock drawls out, “Bond. James Bond.” Internally, he cringes at the overused declaration. What secret agent goes around spouting off his real name to anyone with ears?

“Mr. Bond, I suppose you wouldn’t care to raise the limit?”

A smug retort on his lips, Sherlock takes a drag on the cigarette, blinks, and finds himself in another casino, this one darker, more sombre. He is still in a suit and bowtie, but this time John is present, approaching from the opposite side of the table. He looks stunning in a bespoke suit with an indigo blue shirt. The top two buttons are undone, giving everyone an eyeful of his golden-brown chest. Sherlock’s mouth waters as John walks around to join him and leans in close.

“Weren’t you supposed to enter so the others could see you?” Sherlock asks in a low murmur as he breathes in his favourite smell on the planet, listens to the soft hush of fine fabric slipping against Sherlock’s formal attire.

John runs his nose against Sherlock’s, teasing. “Was I? Forgive me.”

The game continues as John walks away and Sherlock takes a moment to admire his arse moving beneath the fine tailoring. But this time the game is poker and not baccarat, and the person opposite Sherlock is obviously a dangerous criminal and not a simple woman looking to shag Bond.

All seems to be going well until his heart is suddenly pumping out of control and he is stumbling away from the table and toward the bar and someone is asking “Shaken or stirred?” and he is spitting out “Do I look like I give a damn?”

Sherlock continues moving, his coordination failing as he becomes more and more wobbly on his feet. This was in the movie, right? Bond nearly dies because the criminal tries to poison him. But then why is he seeing yellow at the edges of his vision?

He makes it to a restroom, falls over a sink, and dry heaves once, twice. His heart stops squeezing painfully, but his breathing is still stilted. Sherlock shakily pushes up from the sink to catch his reflection in the mirror hanging above. His face is chalky and sweat beads at his hairline. He looks frightful, not one bit like the charismatic, collected Bond.

And then Sherlock sees the garrotte around his neck, clarifying the reason for his breathing problems. His forehead is smacked against metal where the mirror was seconds before, and then he is forced to the floor, which is rumbling and bumpy. A solid body that he knows nearly as well as his own wraps around him, pinning him to the floor.

But instead of the comforting mass that Sherlock has grown accustomed to feeling around, on top of, and in him, this John is hard-edged and cruel. And also apparently hell-bent on killing him, if the tightening wire around his neck is any indicator.

With a well-placed elbow, Sherlock manages to throw John off and the oxygen rush is nearly enough to overcome the impending coughing fit. John tackles him again, intent on stabbing him in the shin with a knife that has somehow appeared out of the end of his shoe. Sherlock parries John’s bladed foot and crowds him into a corner, slamming his knee into John’s stomach so he can have a moment to cough and recover his breathing.

The entire back of the room blasts away for no apparent reason and Sherlock catches a flash of parallel steel rails trailing behind fast-moving scenery before John is coming at him again, this time diving for his torso.

The momentum from John’s tackle sends them tumbling off the back of the train car. Mid-air Sherlock twists and falls into a seat in a moving automobile that was definitely not there a moment before. John is similarly deposited in the seat beside him. Sherlock tenses in preparation for John’s next attack, but none comes. Instead, John is looking grimly above them and driving quite defensively.

Glancing up, Sherlock sees that a helicopter equipped with a pair of ridiculously oversized machine guns is doing its best to blast them off of the road.

John’s driving acumen is unexpectedly impressive. He swerves and accelerates and brakes with preternatural speed, but the helicopter remains in pursuit.

“Can you swim?” John asks blithely, not even looking over for confirmation as the car flies down a dock that appeared from nowhere, smashing into crates like they are made of cardboard.

Sherlock only has time to gasp as the car goes airborne and then dives into the water.

Anticipating the need to immediately exit their sunken vehicle, Sherlock reaches for the door handle, but is distracted by the dashboard flipping. Sensors suitable for a submarine flash online, sail planes emerge from the sides of the car, and a motor nosily whines as something shifts near the wheels and at the back of the car.

Understanding and memory flood Sherlock’s mind and he rolls his eyes.

“It’s time to say goodbye to an uninvited guest,” says John, all business, as he uses the ridiculously simple targeting system on their newly-formed submarine to dispatch their pursuers.

But instead of a missile launching from the back of their submarine as Sherlock expects, the entire roof of the car shoots upward through the water and into the sky. The helicopter hovering above explodes in a fireball.

Water that is warmer than expected rushes in and Sherlock looks over at John to check his reaction.

Still inhumanly calm, John is no longer wearing his suit. Instead, he sports a short-cut pair of white swim trunks and a snorkel. With a carefree kick upward, he is out of the car and easily moving toward the surface. Sherlock is frozen in place momentarily as he admires the lean muscles in John’s legs and the confident way he moves through the water.

But his burning lungs remind Sherlock that he needs to surface soon, so he swims after John. He too has been equipped with a snorkel and swim trunks, but his are black. They emerge from the sea several metres from a sunny beach, and John sings to himself as he walks through the surf, a silly tune about a mango tree.

Seeing John so exposed and tanned and delectable, Sherlock feels an unrelenting rush of want. He surges through the surf, tackling John before he can exit the water. They roll and slide, cocks hard in moments, pleasure sparking, the sounds of the ocean stealing away their soft moans.

Their cocks align and John arches his hips upward. Sherlock presses into the movement, feels the firmness beneath him and writhes as their hips grind together. He leans forward to nibble his way down John’s chin and suck at his neck, looking to prolong this idyllic moment.

And then Sherlock’s teeth have nightmarishly turned into metal and they are doing their best to rip out John’s carotid artery. But he is not having much success, due to the sudden and disorienting lack of gravity. He barely has time to recognize that they are no longer on the beach, but now in outer space, before John is manoeuvring them toward an airlock and they go spinning out into the blackness.

They continue their spiralling embrace straight into a dark corridor of illuminated doorways. John is ripped from his arms and off into the maze of mirrors that sprout up abruptly. Sherlock feels his teeth shrinking back to normal as he tries to get his bearings. Bond’s signature Walter PPK materializes in his right hand and he raises it automatically.

The mirrors rotate, sending Sherlock’s reflection scattering. He pivots, searching for the threat his instincts scream is after him. Cardboard cut-outs pop out, trying to trick him into firing, but he remembers this movie and abstains. The security cameras are laughably easy to spot and avoid as Sherlock navigates the maze, trying to find John and a way out.

And then John creeps around a corner, a boxy golden gun clutched in one hand. Sherlock tries to stop himself, but he extends his elbow and fires once. John falls forward, an expression of shock marring his lovely face.

Sherlock stumbles forward, intent on reaching John, but ducks reflexively when a spate of automatic gunfire sounds from all sides. The shooting stops, and Sherlock cautiously looks up again. He is no longer in the maze, but in a hotel room and John is lying face-up and unmoving on the bed, naked but for a complete coat of gold paint.

He rushes over to check for John’s pulse and realizes that there is neither a bullet wound nor is John actually painted gold. His skin glows faintly yellow before fading back to John’s normal complexion. He touches John’s neck and before he can get any read, is pulled down on top of a very warm and wanting body.

John’s opening kiss is the best sort of filthy, all tongue and a bit of biting and tugging on Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock grabs at John’s upper arms, pushing him hard into the bed, taking control of the exchange and reassuring himself of John’s presence and health.

The cock hardening to press against Sherlock’s newly naked stomach does not go unnoticed by either of them. John practically swoons in his arms as Sherlock gently strokes it with a calloused hand.

“Please, take me. I want you to. You can do anything you want,” John pants.

Sherlock pulls back for a moment, shocked by the need in John’s voice. He has never spoken that way during their previous sexual encounters. It is surprisingly erotic, and Sherlock feels his cock filling further in response.

“I got myself all ready for you. Just fuck me, please. God, I need you to fuck me,” pleads John.

He tests John’s claim by pressing two fingers deep inside and finds the slick warm silk of John’s insides tight and eager, and most definitely ready for him to fill. Sherlock continues pumping his fingers in and out as he licks at one of John’s nipples, searching for the little nub that will make John’s cock leak for him.

“Yes, oh, yes,” gasps John when he finds it and Sherlock bites his nipple gently, relishing that he can elicit this reaction. He rests his head against John’s chest so he can feel the shudders run throughout John’s body as he nudges that spot again and again and again, until John is babbling and begging. Then Sherlock removes his fingers, positions his aching cock, and pushes into the velvet of John’s body, wrapping both palms around John’s obliques so he can steady John’s hips.

John whimpers, open-mouthed as Sherlock presses further into him. Once he is completely seated, Sherlock nudges John’s knees further apart with his elbows and sinks just a little bit deeper. He inhales sharply, the unbelievable pleasure forcing his eyes to flicker closed for a moment.

But John clearly wants to push things toward more friction, because he shimmies his hips and rolls them. Sherlock groans and thrusts his cock back into John, desperate for the pressure and heat.

“Mine,” Sherlock growls, then grasps John’s shoulder and runs his blunt nails down and over John’s chest, which is slick with sweat. The red tracks left in the wake of his nails seem insufficient, so he repeats the action over John’s other shoulder, and then down to his abdomen. John hisses and bucks in pained pleasure, especially when Sherlock crosses over his nipples repeatedly.

All the while, he continues sinking into John over and over, the sensation building into an overwhelming wave of ecstasy.

“I…I need to come, please let me come,” John implores, and Sherlock wraps a hand around John’s cock and strokes feverishly, his rhythm careless and rough.

His own nearly peaking pleasure keeps Sherlock from inhaling all the way. He wants John to come first, for him to understand that it was he who gave John this bliss, for him to know that he belongs to Sherlock, now and always.

“Oh, God, please, ah, don’t stop, don’t stop,” babbles John, his words breathy and short and then he goes completely wordless as he orgasms, the thin, pale ribbons of come painted across his chest contrasting beautifully with the slowly fading red marks.

Sherlock manages to thrust a few more times before he gives into the desire to fill John up. A wild cry pours from him as his cock pulses, and John moans as Sherlock stuffs him full of cock and come.

They shift so John is resting on Sherlock’s chest, his golden hair fluttering as Sherlock breathes heavily through his nose, heart rate slowing gradually. Sherlock wraps his arm around John, and is treated to a lazy smile as John looks up at him, his lashes long and beautiful at this angle.

The same brassy music from earlier plays in Sherlock’s ears, this time accompanied by a persistently repetitive guitar, and he finds his vision fading out. John’s sated grin is the last image he retains before everything finally goes black.

-

Sherlock’s brain reengages and he comes to, face still planted on the kitchen table. He lifts it to find John sitting across from him, mug of tea in one hand, expectant expression on his face. The Bunsen burner is off and the formerly-smoking flask set to the side.

“Well? Did you fall asleep or knock yourself out again?”

He ignores John’s query and takes stock of himself, checking for any injuries, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Once he is satisfied with his body’s condition, Sherlock finishes sitting up and is both surprised and intrigued to discover he has come in his pants during the dream.

A sly smile steals across his face and John squints at him in askance.

“John,” Sherlock begins, purposefully dropping his voice to the octave he knows strokes John’s libido into a roar. “Would you be amenable to adding a role play component to future coitus?”

“Oh? And what brought this on?” John’s voice is slightly higher pitched.

“Let’s just say that a recent movie marathon featuring a certain suave secret agent has given me ideas.”

John grins and then winks at him playfully. “Good. I was hoping it would.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone wondering...
> 
> Electromagnetic weapon aimed at London, a turncoat agent, and a ridiculous number of conveniently useful gadgets -Goldeneye
> 
> Laser between John's legs, "No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!" -Goldfinger
> 
> Q Branch, cigarette rocket dart -You Only Live Twice
> 
> Baccarat, woman in the red dress, "Bond. James Bond." -Dr. No
> 
> John's low neckline, poker, "Do I look like I give a damn?", Bond poisoned -Casino Royale (2006)
> 
> Garrotte, train fight -From Russia with Love
> 
> Car turning into a submarine, helicopter chase -The Spy Who Loved Me
> 
> Skimpy white briefs (originally a bikini), Under The Mango Tree -Dr. No
> 
> Sherlock's teeth turning to metal (Jaws!), floating in space -Moonraker
> 
> Mirror maze, golden gun -The Man with the Golden Gun
> 
> John covered in gold paint -Goldfinger


End file.
